ATTILA'S THRONE: TORCELLO.
Joaquin Miller
do recall some sad days spent - By borders of the Orient,
- 'Twould make a tale. It matters not.
- I sought the loneliest seas; I sought
- The solitude of ruins, and forgot
- Mine own life and my littleness
- Before this fair land's mute distress.
- Slow sailing through the reedy isles,
- Some sunny summer yesterdays,
- I watched the storied yellow sail,
- And lifted prow of steely mail
- Tis all that's left Torcello now,—
- A pirate's yellow sail, a prow.
- I touch'd Torcello. Once on land,
- I took a sea-shell in my hand,
- And blew like any trumpeter.
- I felt the fig leaves lift and stir
- On trees that reach from ruin'd wall
- Above my head,—but that was all.
- Back from the farther island shore
- Came echoes trooping—nothing more.
- By cattle paths grass-grown and worn,
- Through marbled streets all stain'd and torn
- By time and battle, lone I walk'd.
- A bent old beggar, white as one
- For better fruitage blossoming,
- Came on. And as he came he talk'd
- Unto himself; for there were none
- In all his island, old and dim,
- To answer back or question him.
- I turn'd, retraced my steps once more.
- The hot miasma steam'd and rose
- In deadly vapor from the reeds
- That grew from out the shallow shore,
- Where peasants say the sea-horse feeds,
- And Neptune shapes his horn and blows.
- Yet here stood Adria once, and here
- Attila came with sword and flame,
- And set his throne of hollow'd stone
- In her high mart. And it remains
- Still lord o er all. Where once the tears
- Of mute petition fell, the rains
- Of heaven fall. Lo! all alone
- There lifts this massive empty throne.
- I climb'd and sat that throne of stone
- To contemplate, to dream, to reign—
- Ay, reign above myself; to call
- The people of the past again
- Before me as I sat alone
- In all my kingdom. There were kine
- That browsed along the reedy brine,
- And now and then a tusky boar
- Would shake the high reeds of the shore,
- A bird blow by,—but that was all.
- I watch'd the lonesome sea-gull pass.
- I did remember and forget,—
- The past roll'd by; I lived alone.
- I sat the shapely, chisell'd stone
- That stands in tall, sweet grasses set;
- Ay, girdle deep in long, strong grass,
- And green alfalfa. Very fair
- The heavens were, and still and blue,
- For Nature knows no changes there.
- The Alps of Venice, far away,
- Like some half-risen late moon lay.
- How sweet the grasses at my feet!
- The smell of clover over-sweet.
- I heard the hum of bees. The bloom
- Of clover-tops and cherry-trees
- Was being rifled by the bees,
- And these were building in a tomb.
- The fair alfalfa—such as has
- Usurp'd the Occident, and grows
- With all the sweetness of the rose
- On Sacramento's sundown hills—
- Is there, and that dead island fills
- With fragrance. Yet the smell of death
- Comes riding in on every breath.
- That sad, sweet fragrance. It had sense,
- And sound, and voice. It was a part
- Of that which had possess'd my heart,
- And would not of my will go hence.
- Twas Autumn's breath; twas sad as kiss
- Of some sweet worshipp'd woman is.
- Some snails had climb'd the throne and writ
- Their silver monograms on it
- In unknown tongues. I sat thereon,
- I dream'd until the day was gone;
- I blew again my pearly shell,—
- Blew long and strong, and loud and well;
- I puffd my cheeks, I blew as when
- Horn'd satyrs piped and danced as men.
- Some mouse-brown cows that fed within
- Look'd up. A cowherd rose hard by.
- My single subject, clad in skin,
- Nor yet half-clad. I caught his eye,—
- He stared at me, then turn'd and fled.
- He frighten'd fled, and as he ran,
- Like wild beast from the face of man,
- Back o'er his shoulder threw his head.
- He stopp'd, and then this subject true,
- Mine only one in all the isle,
- Turn'd round, and, with a fawning smile,
- Came back and ask'd me for a sou!